


Every Now and Then

by Teatime_at_Melmoths



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Time Travel, but also modern era, time travel cultural shock, victor hugo is an actual character, who has never become obsessed with a book character?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-08-07 11:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7713766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teatime_at_Melmoths/pseuds/Teatime_at_Melmoths
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 21st century is a mess but Grantaire has no interest in pointlessly trying to change the world he lives in. On the contrary, he has a passion for history and the age of revolts that was the 19th century fascinates him. When he finds a way to go back to 1832 and meet the group of  students he has read about, however, he understands that he has the chance to save their lives, if only he persuades them not to join the June rebellion.<br/>Sometimes changing the past seems easier than changing the present.<br/><br/>If you don't know wheter you should read a canon era fic or a modern au fic, this is just the thing for you!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Palaces out of Paragraphs

All of his paintings were full of red. He couldn't help it, whatever the subject he wanted to depict was, he would always find himself dipping the brush in that color. On the face of a man, it became a warning. On the lips of a woman it became a suggestion. Side by side with blue and white it became history.  
He added a last touch on the canvas and took a few steps back to watch his work, a dozen of boys in t-shirt and ripped jeans climbing on a wrecked car and raising red and tricolor flags towards the sky.  
Satisfied, he allowed himself to light a cigarette, while beginning to clean the brushes he had used in a glass full of water. The sounds of Paris came in through the window, clashing with the music coming out of the radio, which was always switched on when he was painting.  
"You may have passed your Bac four years ago, Grantaire, but this is still a school classroom."  
The boy startled hearing the voice of the professor, who had entered unheard.  
"Good morning monsieur Hugo!" he welcomed him with a smile.  
"Don't smoke in here son, please."  
"Aye, sir." he saluted and dropped the cigarette in the glass of water together with the brushes. An amused light in the old man's eyes made clear that the harsh look on his face wasn't to be taken seriously, as usual.  
That was what made Hugo the only person older than 35 years that Grantaire liked. Despite being four months away from his deserved retirement, he wasn't one of those stuck-up old wretches who thought they could boss around just because their face was so full of wrinkles that it made raisins jealous. In his soul and in his mind, Monsieur Hugo was younger than many people in their twenties. He had taught Grantaire french literature and history for three years. He was the one who had started the boy's passion for the past, and the one who hoped to start his passion for the present too. In vain, since Grantaire's response to his suggestions of attending a meeting on the last job reform or reading an article about cuts to university funds was always the same: "My interest stops at 1968. By now, times are just too fucked up to change something".  
The professor took some seconds to admire Grantaire's new painting.  
"Delacroix again?" he asked with a smile.  
The young man grinned, passing a hand through his short dark curls.  
"Is it that evident?"  
"Setting a scene in modern days is not enough to take the pure spirit of Romanticism off of it. You have been taking inspiration from 'La Liberté guidant le peuple' for the last two months."  
Grantaire raised his hands in a guilty pose.  
"Busted. I know I'm becoming mono-thematic, but I just can't help it." He gently passed a finger on the dry paint, as if he was cherishing a baby's cheek. "Revolution is just so fascinating."  
"I must admit you're right." the old man agreed. Suddenly, he brought his hand to his forehead.  
"I was almost forgetting!" He opened the briefcase he had with him and took a binder off of it. "I brought you the draft of the book I talked you about. There are all the documents I used, too."  
"Yeah, thank you!" Grantaire took it and leafed through it, glancing at hand-written pages and photocopied old maps. "It's the one about the guy who is virtually in love with Napoleon and the Empire but joins the group of republican revolutionists, isn't it? What was his name?"  
"Pontmercy." The professor answered "Marius Pontmercy."  
"That's it. Thank you, I like these stories." Grantaire put the binder in his shoulder bag, together with his brushes. Hugo allowed him to use that school classroom to paint even though he had graduated four years before, but he didn't trust leaving his things there at night.  
"They are not stories, you know. It really happened, in 1832. They took part in the June Rebellion against king Louis-Philippe. It took me three years to collect enough documents! I had to scan old newspapers, police reports and private correspondences. But I must say I'm pretty much satisfied."  
"I don't doubt it, Monsieur." Grantaire tapped his shoulder bag with a protective attitude. "Don't worry, I'm keeping your baby safe."  
  
***  
  
Grantaire's flat was at just five minutes by motorbike from the school. It was small and poorly furnished, he couldn't afford any better with the money he got working part-time as a waiter or at a take away, but he didn't complain. It surely was much better than living with his parents. He had been able to bear being constantly treated as a disappointment for nineteen years, but as soon as he had graduated he had moved out without second thought. He could still remember that day of four years before, that last quarrel in his parents' corridor, with his suitcase already in his hand.  
"If you don't go to college you will always be a failure!" his father had yelled "You have no back spine! When are you going to set your mind on something? No wonder you can't even choose if you like boys or if you're normal!" Grantaire hadn't even bothered to get angry that one time. He was still laughing the most bitter laugh he knew when he had closed the door behind him.  
In his own little flat he had less to worry about. Probably he was still a failure, but at least there wasn't someone constantly reminding him that.  
As soon as he got home he went straight to the fridge and took a packed sandwich and a can of beer. The average brilliant diet of a boy in his twenties living alone.  
He sat in front of his laptop and clicked the Google Chrome icon. It took him just a few seconds to find out with horror that the internet was down.  
"This shitty wi-fi.." he groaned, pointlessly banging his fingers on the keyboard. He had somehow lost six years before finally deciding to watch Breaking Bad. And his laptop had decided to let him down in the middle of the fourth season? That was probably some kind of infernal _contrappasso_.  
His sight fell on the shoulder bag he had abandoned right beside the entry door. Probably, reading a few pages of Hugo's book would be better than eating his sandwich in complete silence with his mind free of wandering. That was something that really made him feel like he was a 90 years-old widow drinking bone broth and waiting to die.  
So he took the binder and put it on the table. It was partially hand-written and partially typed on an old typewriter. The professor was incredibly vintage. He opened it at a random page. It was the draft of a dialogue between the protagonist, Pontmercy, and the girl he had fallen in love with, Cosette. Grantaire shook his head at how romantic and sweet it was, but after a few lines he had to admit it was pretty cool. He had read many short stories by professor Hugo, and he really loved his style: in the same page he was able to express perfectly a difficult, abstract idea in just a few words or to spend lines and lines to get to define something that everyone would consider trivial. He also used a huge amount of unusual metaphors and symbols, and Grantaire had to admit he had a weakness for that kind of techniques. Only after two pages Grantaire had begun to like Pontmercy through his kind and passionate words to Cosette, although he couldn't help grinning at the character's shyness and modesty. Hugo had definitely been good at imagining a 19th century young man: none of Grantaire's acquaintances would ever have behaved like Marius.  
Once he finished his sandwich he got up without taking his eyes off the book to go and settle more comfortably on the couch, but doing so a handful of papers fell out of the binder.  
"Shit." he left out with a sigh, kneeling down to gather the scattered sheets: a detailed map of the 1955 sewer system of Paris, a photocopy of a list of ammunition and a letter, written in a rushed but still elegant hand-writing. He picked up the latter with extreme delicacy, seeing that it was not a photocopy. The paper had yellowed and the ink was smudged in many points, making it hard to read. But in general, it was in very good conditions.  
He read the date on the top of the page: _Paris, le 15 Décembre 1831_. He felt a shiver, knowing that he was holding a 185 years-old letter. His eyes scanned the words following the maze of the ink, and after a few lines he was hooked.  
  
_Dear Combeferre,_  
_I was delighted to receive your letter yesterday, and glad to know that your mother is feeling better._  
Should you be wondering, there has not been any major change here since you have left us last month. A friend of Courfeyrac's has attended a couple of meetings; he said that his father was a baron who fought under Buonaparte, and he inherited the title and the worshipping awe for the Empire. You do know well my disdain towards the usurper; despite this, I reckon you will agree with me when I say that it is useful discussing another point of view. Moreover, by the end he seemed having understood the importance and the great potential of our long-awaited Republic. I saw it in his eyes and I heard it in his silence. I am confident that he felt the fresh breeze that Freedom blows. And I know he is not the only one.  
_Something is changing, my friend. I can feel it in the streets: Paris is abuzz, the people speak quieter and walk faster. It is indeed as if they were sensing a storm approaching. I do believe that if we endure in our work and keep the faith in the Progress of humanity, the dam of Fate will break and the future will flood all of France. Picture that, friend of mine, for I swear its time is getting closer._  
_At the Musain, we all look forward to having you back next month. In the meanwhile, I take the advantage of this letter to wish you and your parents a happy Christmas._  
  
_Ever your friend,_  
  
_Enjolras_  
  
_P.S. Courfeyrac begs me to send you his regards._  
  
Grantaire read the letter over and over again, feeling an unusual pressure in his chest. He found himself grinning at the piece of paper, while the sentences written on it rang through his brain. In his mind, he couldn't help reading them with the fierce and passionate inflection of a prophet or a commander. All of those references to freedom and fate might have been only empty words and rhetoric, but Grantaire was inevitably fascinated by the strength that they were able to convey after almost two centuries.  
His eyes ran to the elegant signature at the bottom of the page.  
"Enjolras." He read out loud, slowly, as if he was tasting the sound of that name that started in the back of his palate and glided around his tongue, ending like a whisper on his lips.  
"Enjolras and Combeferre." With a sudden movement, he began to flick through the tens of pages of the manuscript to find another trace of those names. He found them again halfway the pile and he stopped with a triumphant smile.  
On the top of the page, the title of the section introduced _"Un group qui a failli devenir historique"_.  
  
***  
  
Monsieur Hugo lived in a flat right opposite the school and this had made of him a sort of a watchman. When Grantaire was in terminale, a couple of kids had broken in one night to steal the new computer of the lab, but they had found their way out blocked by the massive shape of the white-bearded man. He had let them go with a simple scolding, but in the following days the voice had spread throughout the school, and the old literature teacher had began to be described as a sort of vengeful wraith that protected the building.  
It had been a week since the professor had given his book on the June Rebellion to Grantaire, and he decided to go and check on him again.  
"Good afternoon, monsieur!" the boy's voice welcomed him with an excited tone as soon as he opened the door.  
"Good God, Grantaire, what happened in here?" he asked giving a look around. The classroom was a complete mess of sheets of paper, canvas and paint tubes. Grantaire, barefoot, moved frantically around following the rhythm of the music that came out of the stereo and mixing colors to find the right shade.  
"Your book, sir. Your book is amazing! I mean it!" a thrilled smile curled the boy's lips "The descriptions of the characters. My God, I swear someone could fall in love with those guys just reading those descriptions!"  
Hugo bowed slightly his head with a thankful smile, while taking a pile of sheets with sketched faces.  
"Yeah, that's how I imagined them. I'm trying to paint them on the barricade but I'm having some trouble getting the right perspective of the furniture. This one's Courfeyrac." Grantaire pointed to the drawing of a dark-haired man, then his finger ran to another face brightened by a sweet smile. "And this is Joly"  
"Not bad..What about this one?" Hugo asked, taking a sheet of paper with the sketch of a thin, pale man with dark circles under his eyes, scruffy beard and a gloomy expression.  
"That's Prouvaire." The professor broke into a laughter. "Jean Prouvaire? Is this how you imagined him?" Grantaire shrugged.  
"You wrote that he was a poet. I thought about, you know.. Baudelaire, _les poètes maudites_.."  
"I see." the old man kept on leafing through the sketches, when suddenly he froze. He took one of the sheets and lifted it in front of his face, staring with a frown at the sketched young man with blue eyes, full lips and curly, blond hair. Grantaire cleared his throat.  
"Yeah, that's Enjolras, the leader." He looked at the professor with a perplexed expression, puzzled by his reaction to the drawing.  
"Astounding." the old man murmured.  
"I don't know. Do you think so? I'm afraid it's kind of stereotypical, you know? The crispy locks and the soft traits...Maybe it's a bit too much of a cherubim." He gathered a handful of drawings of the same face, from different perspectives and with different expressions.  
"I tried to change it, but I always go back drawing him like this. It's the only way that feels right to me."  
Some seconds of complete silence followed. The CD in the stereo was over.  
Finally, Hugo blinked rapidly and put the drawing back on the table. Grantaire took it and looked at it lifting slightly the corners of his lips, then he sat to put his shoes on.  
While he was tying his laces, he tried to ignore as long as he could the tickling feeling at the bottom of his head that warned him that the professor was staring at him. Finally, he let out a peeved sigh and stood up, facing the old man.  
"What?" he asked.  
"Grantaire, there is something I'd like to show you." Hugo explained, holding his hands behind his back. "But you have to promise that you will do what I'll tell you to do and won't speak about it to anyone."  
Grantaire tilted his head and frowned, perplexed by the man's vague words.  
"What is it?"  
"Come with me."  
The boy followed the professor out of the classroom and down the corridor lit by the summer sun that came in through the wide windows, up to a little door in the basement of the school. Hugo fiddled with a ring of keys and finally opened it. He stepped aside to let Grantaire in.  
When Grantaire entered the room he did it with a sort of reverence, as if he was going inside a church or a majestic palace: Hugo's cryptic behavior had aroused his curiosity and he was expecting something breathless to appear on the other side of the wooden door.  
He therefore couldn't hide his disappointment when the room turned out to be a simple closet brimming with piles of cardboard boxes full of school reports.  
"Monsieur, what is exactly you wanted to show me?" he said reluctantly.  
The other ignored him. He walked across the room and placed himself in front of the wall. Then, he turned to face the boy and stretched out his left arm.  
"Take my hand." he invited him moving gently his fingers.  
Grantaire looked at him in slight disbelief. The vague thought of senile began to form in his mind while he gave the old man a scoffing smile.  
"Monsieur Hugo, I am flattered by your interest and I swear I find white hair extremely charming, but you're not really my cup of tea, you know.."  
"Grantaire." Hugo shut him up "Do as you're told."  
The severe look on the old man's face made Grantaire frown. What was this about? Uncertain, he took a couple of steps and grabbed Hugo's hand.  
Hugo nodded slowly "It will feel strange but it will last only a moment. Don't let it go until I tell you to."  
"Professor, now I'm serious. You are really freaking me out, will you please tell me what's going on?"  
Again, the old man didn't react to his words and he turned to face the wall. Grantaire watched in disbelief as he lifted his free hand, moving it in the air as if he was trying to find something. Suddenly he stopped, and his fingers crooked as if they were finally grabbing what they had been looking for. He moved slowly a step forward.  
Grantaire opened his mouth to protest again, but his voice got stuck in his throat. A sudden shiver shook his body from head to toes. For a second his head exploded in a whirl of images and sounds that he wasn't able to tell one from the other and forced him to instinctively close his eyes to overcome dizziness.  
As the professor had warned, the feeling lasted an heartbeat and then it was gone.  
The boy blinked quickly to recover his sight. He stared for a few seconds at the wooden wall in front of him. Wasn't it plaster a moment before?  
He realized suddenly that Hugo had left his hand and was looking at him with a smile.  
"What the hell was that??" he asked excitedly, when he was finally in possess of his mental faculties again. That was cool, man! What was it?? Some sort of magnetic field or electric shock or shit like that??"  
"Slow down, Grantaire. That's not the important part of what I'm showing you." Hugo said quietly "Haven't you noticed anything?" with a slight movement of his hand he made sign of looking around them.  
Grantaire did it and after an instant he could feel his jaw drop.  
It was not only the wooden wall. Everything around them had changed. The boxes of reports had been replaced with barrels, the light bulbs had disappeared and the whole room was lit by the dim light that entered from the window. A feeble smell of mold tickled the boy's nostrils and almost made him sneeze.  
He moved a few times his mouth as if gasping for air and finally succeeded in letting out a full meaning word.  
"..How?"  
Hugo pointed at a big, heavy door behind him.  
"Take a look outside first."  
Still extremely confused, Grantaire opened slowly the door and peeked outside. His breath hitched at the view of a big room with wooden walls and floor, filled with smoke, cheerful voices and laughter. Young men were sitting at tables or standing in small groups, drinking, playing cards and discussing animatedly. He was clearly not in his school anymore: that place looked more like some traditional Irish pub. What shocked him most were the clothes those men were wearing: white shirts, cravats, vests and frock coats. Many wore a top hat. It was like being at an unusual Halloween party or on the set of a film.  
Unable to take his eyes away from the strange scene, Grantaire was startled by Hugo's voice, coming from behind his back.  
"Son, I bid you welcome to the Nineteenth Century. Musain Café, Paris, 6th January 1832”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! I hope this first chapter arouses your curiosity! I have been planning this fic for AGES and I grew really fond of it. I hope I will be able to complete it!!! Unfortunately I have very low self-esteem and this drains all of my motivation. So if you leave a comment, even a really short one, I swear that you are really helping me!  
> Please note that English is not my first language, although I have been studying it for several years. If you find any error, let me know and I will fix it!  
> Yes, the title of this first chapter is a reference to Hamilton. Yes, I am musical trash.  
> If you want you can follow me on Tumblr at musain-rules , to talk about the story or just say hello! :)  
> See you soon!


	2. Future in the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire finds himself in front of those he considered to be only characters in a historical book. Some of them are not like he had imagined. Some of them definitely are. What to do when you are aware of the ill-fate of everyone around you?

 

 

 

 

How many times had he imagined of going back in time? Being able to witness first-hand the great events he had studied on books for years, seeing with his own eyes long-lost treasures, palaces and works of art, talking to people whose lives were absolutely normal and yet so different from his own.

At last, there he was.

And the only thought his brain was able to conceive was: “I'm wearing a Fall Out Boy t-shirt.” Spot the anachronistic element.

Only after some seconds the value of what was in front of him hit him right in the chest, making him take a jump back and releasing the brakes of his mouth.

“That's impossible! Impossible! Is it a joke? What.. What the fuck was that? It can't be possible..How is it possible?!” he paced the floor in shock, unable to stand still.

Monsieur Hugo, with his usual peaceful smile on his lips, waited for him to vent before he started talking.

“Have you ever heard of the fabric of space-time?”

The question added to the other hundreds that were flooding Grantaire's mind. He forced himself to focus on what the professor was saying.

“I...Yes,” he answered “in some sci-fi movie. I guess.”

“Well, let's say that you can imagine reality like a clew.” He gestured, miming the shape of a ball with his hands. “Everything that ever happened and everything that is happening right now, all the facts of history rolled up and pressed one to another. A clew so tight that all of the historical eras almost overlap.”

Same old story. After four years Hugo was giving again one of his lessons, and Grantaire couldn't help but being fascinated by his words and picturing in his mind everything the old man was saying.

“And yet,” the professor continued “all of these moments are constantly kept apart by space-time. It's like a barrier, the walls that limit a corridor and force all of mankind to walk straight on, without wondering what could be on the outside of that long, narrow room. Are you with me?”

Grantaire nodded slowly “So..?”

“So,” Hugo continued “Every now and then, in extraordinary, almost unique cases, this fabric tears.” He pointed at the wall at the end of the room. It was an ordinary wall, but Grantaire noticed that when he glanced at it with the corner of his eye he could see the air in front of it move, just like on the hot asphalt on a summer day.

“A tiny rip, nothing when compared to the huge complexity of reality, but enough to allow someone to simply walk on the other side. Breaking through the wall, taking a peek at what's beyond it. And this. This is one of those unique cases.” The professor stopped talking, letting what he had just said sink in Grantaire's mind.

A minute passed before the latter broke the silence with uncertain voice. “So...What you are telling me is that this...This is really 1832? Like...For real?”

“Yes, the 6th of January”

“And this is the Café Musain. The one you mentioned in your book.”

“And in that room there are Les Amis de l'ABC. Well, at least some of them.”

Grantaire passed a hand through his hair, while an excited chuckle shook his chest. Accepting what he had just heard wasn't easy, but the enthusiasm that was growing inside of him left no doubt on the fact that he totally believed Hugo's words.

“What do you say?” Hugo asked with a smile “Do you want to go and have a look?”

Grantaire's eyes widened at his words. “You mean that I can? I can actually... Go there, look at them, speak to them? I won't create a paradox that will destroy the universe or something like that?”

The old man laughed “I hope you won't. Just be careful, we don't want to find out what could happen if you told them something about their future. Agreed?”

“Sure” he nodded, serious “Butterflies and hurricanes and all that jazz.”

“Right. Oh, one last thing.” He opened his trusty briefcase, took out a brown coat and handed it to Grantaire. “If we don't draw attention my white shirt should do, but if I am too old to know who 'Fall Out Boy' is I'm afraid your t-shirt might look a bit strange to a group of 19th Century men. Moreover, you can trust me when I say that global warming actually is a thing, 19th century winters are colder than what you might expect."

The young man wore the coat in a hurry, closing its buttons with hands shaking for the excitement. “How do I look?” He spread his arms showing his new outfit.

“Honestly? Like a 21st century tramp,” the professor answered. He ignored the look at once shocked and amused that Grantaire gave him and added “But we won't give it too much importance”

“Well.. can we go?” Hugo smiled at the impatience in the boy's voice. A slight nod was enough to make Grantaire rush out of the dusky room and into the busy café.

***

The resounding voices and the fumes of cigars and pipes helped making the scene in the Café Musain even more dreamy than it already was. Grantaire's gaze kept shifting from a glass bottle to a wooden stoop, from a gas-bracket to the puffy sleeves of a shirt. It was nothing like any pub he had ever been to, obviously. There weren't colored LED lights nor music so loud it made the table vibrate. There was a piano in a corner, but no one was playing. What was even stranger, though, were the people. Not only because of their clothes (Grantaire had never been among so many people without seeing even one pair of All Stars) , their very behavior was different from what he was used to. The way everybody kept their back straight and moved gently their hands while talking. The space that divided one from another as if they were avoiding physical contact. The voices that rarely rose. And still, one glance was enough to see that all of those elegant, done up men were boys in their twenties, just like Grantaire.

“The one on your right is Bossuet.” Hugo's voice sneaked inside the whirl of Grantaire's thoughts as if he was his own conscience. He turned to look at a bald young man, busy shuffling poker cards. He smiled and tried to remember what the professor had written about him in his book, but the only things that came to his mind were the fact that he studied law and that he was considered a very unlucky guy. In his sketches he had definitely imagined him with more hair.

“That's incredible. I can't believe it's the same Bossuet you described in your book! Or... that you are going to describe? I mean, in theory you will write it in 185 years and-” His excited ranting was interrupted when he accidentally bumped into a boy and froze on his feet.

“Er...pardon me.” he murmured unsure, while apocalyptic scenes of hurricanes began to form in his mind.

Two big, brown eyes looked at him, lit by a warm smile. “Don't worry, it was my fault.” the young man walked past Grantaire with a gentle movement and long, tawny hair almost floating behind him. Hugo laughed at Grantaire's expression when the latter turned to him and whispered, clearly forcing himself not to yell

“I have just spoken to a 19th century person!”

“That was Jehan Prouvaire. Do you understand why I laughed looking at your drawing?”

Grantaire's smile faded remembering the somber look of the man in his sketchbook.

“Oh. I guess I didn't do a great job drawing them, did I?” he asked with a grimacing face.

“I can guarantee that it's not completely true.” Hugo said. He took a look around “Look at the table in the corner,” he added.

“Who's there?” Grantaire asked, trying to watch over the heads of the people that blocked his view.

“Enjolras.”

The name sent a boost of energy across Grantaire's whole body and made him instinctively stand on his tiptoes to get to see the man on the other side of the room.

Enjolras. The man who had written the letter he had read dozens of times in the last week, together with many other notes and short messages. The leader of the group, the student who had been able to charm him and his lazy 21st century mind with his mere rhetorical skills. His favorite character he would have said, if only he wasn't there, in flesh and bones, a few meters away from him. It was like being at a concert and trying to catch a glimpse of your favorite singer at the stage door.

“Which one is him?” Grantaire asked when he finally spotted the table Hugo had mentioned. Curious, he scanned every face trying to guess which was the one he was looking for.

And he froze.

His jaw dropped when he found himself looking at the face that filled so many pages of his sketchbook. The exact same face. The same delicate jaw line, the same full lips, the same fine nose, the same golden curls that framed his features like a halo. There wasn't one single trait of Enjolras that didn't coincide with the man Grantaire had drawn after reading that letter written in the late December of 1831.

“Have you seen him?” Hugo asked. Grantaire didn't look away. He was spaced out, trying to read Enjolras's lips as he talked to someone sitting next to him.

“It's...” he muttered.

“Astounding.” the professor completed his sentence in his place “I told you. You drew his perfect portrait. When I saw your drawing I couldn't help bringing you here. You had to see him. In my opinion you have done something incredible.”

The boy nodded absentmindedly. He could hear his mother's voice in his head yelling at him to stop staring, it was impolite, he looked weird, but he wasn't able to move. The man on the other side of the room gestured with one hand and closed his eyes in an annoyed expression. When he opened them again he suddenly turned his head and met Grantaire's gaze. From that distance Grantaire couldn't see what color his eyes were, but even so he was sure they had the dark shade of blue he had imagined when drawing. And yet there was something different. One detail he hadn't got right in those incredibly accurate portraits. But he couldn't understand what it was.

As if in trance he took a step forward, trying to spot the difference.

When Enjolras took his eyes off of Grantaire's, the latter came to his senses, realizing he hadn't blinked for an unhealthy amount of time.

“The one sitting on his left is Bahorel,” Hugo continued , “the one on his right is Courfeyrac.”

“What about Combeferre?” Grantaire snapped, remembering the addressee of the first letter he had read.

“He's visiting his family in Marseille, he will be back tomorrow. Feuilly and Joly are missing too, today.”

"What about Pontmercy?" he asked. Hugo raised his hand and pointed a dark haired young man sitting alone at a table, who was looking around with an absent-minded and sorrowful expression.

"Yeah, I see his love-struck eyes. He has already met his fair Cosette, hasn't he?"

"Exactly, but he still doesn't know her name. In a few minutes he will leave the Musain and walk to the Luxembourg Gardens, where she strolls every day with her father."

"The ex convict."

Hugo laughed "You don't know how many months I spent trying to figure out who that man was. There isn't a file in a courthouse from here to Tolouse that I didn't sound out."

"You really put a lot of effort in that book."

"I saw these kids with my own eyes and attended a couple of their meetings. I swear that they are among the bravest and smartest people I've ever known, and yet history doesn't remember them. I felt like it was my duty to make people know they lived."

The last sentence got stuck in a corner of Grantaire's mind, inconsistent with his rationality: the young men he was looking at and whose voices crowded the room were actually dead. At least, they had been for more than 150 years where Grantaire came from. A vague sense of melancholy lifted as fog in his heart.

"Do you want to take a stroll?" Hugo asked, noticing his face had clouded. "The whole world is different from what you are used to and we don't have much time."

"Sure!" Grantaire snapped, lightened up, as he followed the professor outside the bar. In the doorway he glanced behind at the table in the corner and was startled by the attentive look of a pair of dark blue eyes fixed on him.

***

Grantaire knew he would have been stupid if he had expected to find himself in the same Paris he lived in: 184 years of history and progress can radically change the looks of a place. Despite this, the more he wandered in those narrow streets full of oddly-dressed people, the more his disbelief grew.

"I swear to God, monsieur, I can't believe this is Paris. Where are we?" he asked.

Hugo looked around at the signs with the names of the streets. "If I'm not mistaken, we should be more or less on the Boulevard Saint-Michel," he answered.

Grantaire blinked surprised when he mentally compared the maze of side streets he could see with the wide paved road he walked on every day, but he decided not to spend too much time focusing on the change of the street plan: time travel was on a higher place in his list of curiosities.

"Sorry, I interrupted you. What were you saying?"

"I was telling you about the time I spent here. This is my fifth visit. The first time I stayed only a few seconds, the time that took me to realize what had happened. I panicked and went back straight away. After a few days I had made up my mind and understood that this was a unique opportunity. I came twice more and stayed for a couple of days each time," Hugo was speaking as if nothing in that story was odd. Grantaire, on his side, was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the situation.

"From that moment I began to study and research everything that had something to do with this kind of phenomenon. I read books and spoke both with men of science and experts of folkloristic myths. Now I can say that I know an incredible amount of facts and theories about time travel. The last time I came, two months ago, I stayed twelve days. I collected as much information I could about Les Amis de l'ABC, Marius Pontmercy and his family."

"He's the only one to survive the barricade, isn't he?"

"Exactly. All of the others died in battle, between the 5th and the 6th of June. One of them was captured by the national guard and executed, although I couldn't find out who it was."

"That's awful," Grantaire murmured "what went wrong?"

The bitter laugh that left Hugo's mouth made the young man's mood even worse. "History, son. Nothing else. We can't even imagine how many kids died in a similar way. How many protests and failed riots aren't even remembered."

"But there is always one deatail that determines the outcome of a battle, isn't it? The wet ground for Wellington, the elephants for Hannibal.."

"You're making war seem easier than it is, Grantaire. There are too many factors to consider. In this case, the revolting students were in dire straits. Few people, few ammunitions, second-hand guns, difficulty in connecting all of the different groups in Paris..."

"So they didn't have a chance to survive?"

Hugo shrugged. "If the people of Paris had risen, maybe. But it wasn't time. I think that the only possible way for them to live to see the 7th of June was not getting involved in the fight at all. But again, from what I came to learn about them, I think they were too motivated to give up the cause."

"And you never thought of trying to change their minds?" A sense of anguish was beginning to spread in Grantaire's chest. The faces he had just seen, Les Amis, they weren't the characters of a book or some legendary historical figure. They were actual men, in flesh and bones, living, breathing but bound to die in a few months.

"Didn't you think of warning them, telling them that the rebellion wouldn't succed?"

"It might be dangerous." Hugo looked at him sternly. "We don't know for sure what would happen if we changed the past. Someone thinks that the fabric of space-time would shatter, destroying the universe. Like you said, butterflies and hurricanes. Others believe that Time would restore itself, erasing whatever caused the paradox. Maybe the future would change. Maybe nothing would happen, the two possible universes would keep on existing on their own. But we don't know. The stakes are too high to take a risk. And in any way, staying here too long might be dangerous too. After a few days I began to hear a low buzz in my brain. It grew stronger and stronger. We are interferences here, Grantaire. I think that after a few weeks that noise would become unbearable."

Grantaire bowed his head, looking at his feet.

"Only a madman would try and change the past." the old man concluded.

***

That night, 185 years later, Grantaire stared blankly at the ceiling for what felt like forever. A mixture of sorrow, fear and remorse clung to his stomach like a vise, despite his attempts to fall asleep.

Once back to the school Hugo had said goodbye and went home, probably proud for having shown something new to an enthusiastic kid.

He wasn't aware of how much those few hours in the past had shaken Grantaire. He couldn't stop thinking about the faces he had seen.

Those men - those boys - who discussed cheerfully, played cards and drank red wine, unaware of their imminent deaths.

"It's in the past," he kept telling himself. "It's in the past. It's in the past."

But it wasn't. It wasn't in the past. It was in the future. Somewhere it was still the 6th of January 1832. Somewhere les Amis were still alive. Somewhere the dice had yet to be cast. Somewhere they were still in time to change their minds.

Feeling his hert racing, he got up and started to pace the floor.

"Only a madman would try and change the past," he repeated out loud. He needed to convince himself, he needed to forget the insane thought that had been ringing in the back of his mind for the whole afternoon.

His gaze fell on the sketchbook, where two dark-blue, cold eyes were staring into the void of the paper sheet. A shiver ran down Grantaire's spine at the thought of those very eyes staring lifeless at the Parisian sky.

"I'm a madman."

With a sudden movement, he jumped in front of his wardrobe and opened the door wide.

"This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy," he kept on saying while he rummaged throught the clothes he had never worn. He grabbed a pair of plain brown trousers and the only white shirt he owned. Surely nothing to do with the fluffy-sleeved XIXth century shirts, but at least it didn't have a band logo on it. He dressed up in a hurry and looked at himself in the mirror.

"This is crazy," he said again.

His grandfather's old coat, which he had kept in sight of some Halloween costume, completed the work.

He checked the time: half past one. Hugo had to be asleep. He grabbed his phone out of habit, just to realize what he had done and drop it on the table. He let out an excited laugh and stormed out of the flat.

A fast ride up to the school. A window smashed. A run in the corridor. A few, uncertain steps in front of what seemed like an average wall.

And he was back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I got to finish this thing. I swear, you have no idea of all of the things I've been through to write this chapter. Anyway, I hope you liked it! Now the story can begin for good! :D  
> Thanks for reading this if you got here! Love ya ♥  
> If you have a question, a comment, a criticisim, or if you just want to say hello you can find me at [musain-rules](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/musain-rules)!!  
> I hope I will be able to write the next chapter in less than a whole lifetime!  
> Bye!♥


	3. Midnight in Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is back again in 1832, this time on his own. He gets to know some of Les Amis de l'ABC and begins to become aware of the wonders of being in the XIXth century.

"Is this seat taken?"

Marius Pontmercy lifted his eyes from the glass of red wine he was holding and looked at the stranger with a puzzled expression.

"No.. I mean.. please!" he stammered, still lost in his thoughts. Grantaire sat on the chair and crossed his legs.

"So..what's up?" he asked with a friendly smile.

"Sorry?"

"I'm Grantaire!"

At last Marius came to his senses, straightened his spine and shook the hand the young man was holding out.

"Oh. Yes. I'm Marius. Pontmercy. Baron Marius Pontmercy," he punctuated with uncertain voice.

Grantaire snickered, forcing himself not to say 'I know'. The scene was exactly the same he had seen with monsieur Hugo: Joly mixing the cards, Enjolras discussing with Courfeyrac in the corner, Prouvaire walking through the room where he would have bumped into Grantaire himself if he hadn't sat next to Marius that time.

He knew the names of everybody in that room and he knew their fates. But he was determined to change them. The plan was simple: pretending to be an average 19th century guy, befriending les Amis and convincing them not to join the June Rebellion. He knew damn well how easily people can give up a project: he himself had never been able to stick to a plan, be it learning to play an instrument or applying to an Art school. It takes an awful amount of willpower to stand up for an abstract ideal. If talking about the dangers of war wouldn't make it, Grantaire was sure it wouldn't take much to ruin their motivation and make them lose heart.

The first step was getting to know them and gaining their trust, and the young baron looked lonely enough to take the chance of a stranger talking to him.

"So, Marius. How long have you been attending these meetings?"

"Just a few weeks, to be honest..But who..who brought you here? The first time I came with Courfeyrac.."

"Oh no one, you know...I was just wandering around, I saw the Musain and I thought I should have a look inside.." Grantaire explained raising his shoulders.

"Oh, I understand.." Marius continued, uncertain, "Although that's unusual. They usually prefer knowing who attends the meetings... I think it's because someone could spy on them and denounce the fact that they are planning a republican insurrection and.." the young man froze for a second, looking at Grantaire with his eyes open wide, "Then again, I imagine I shouldn't tell you these things." he murmured.

Grantaire ignored the other man's worries and said "Ah, so they admit only people they know. Yeah, right..I guess that explains it."

"Explains whay?" Marius asked, perplexed. Grantaire leaned across the table with a cryptic expression and whispered so silently that Marius too had to lean towards him to listen.

"Is the blond guy still staring at me?" Marius frowned

"The blond...Do you mean Enjolras? He is.." He glanced at the table in the corner and met the eyes of Enjolras that were, in fact, fixed on Grantaire's back.

"I..believe you could say so," Marius concluded.

Grantaire smiled amused and turned around, childishly waving a hand to the group's leader on the other side of the room. The latter winced, caught in the act, and blinked rapidly a couple of times. He then leaned towards Courfeyrac and said something in his ear. A second later, another pair of eyes were fixed on Grantaire's relaxed grin.

Suddenly, Grantaire found it hard to breathe freely, as the two men got up and approached the table where he was sitting.

"Good afternoon, Marius!" Courfeyrac's voice was bright and cheerful, just like the smile that lit up his face. "How are you feeling today? Have you spoken to the beautiful lady from the Luxembourg Gardens yet?"

Marius's ears became red all of a sudden and his hands started fidgeting under the table

"Good afternoon, Courfeyrac," he answered with wobbly voice, ignoring the reference to his love interest. "Enjolras." he added without meeting the blond man's eyes, who answered politely bowing his head.

"Aren't you going to introduce us to your friend?" the dark-haired man continued, flashing a smile in Grantaire's direction.

"Oh. Yes, of course! This is...Er.."

Grantaire spotted the panic in Marius' voice and intervened, offering his hand to Courfeyrac "Grantaire"

"Nice to meet you, Grantaire. I'm Courfeyrac."

"Enjolras. It's a pleasure."

He smiled hearing a soft and steady voice coming out of Enjolras' mouth, less harsh than what he expected.

"The pleasure is all mine, trust me. But please, join us! Both of you."

"I'm afraid there aren't enough chairs at this table," Courfeyrac observed, pointing at the only free seat.

"Tell me, Marius, don't you have a date?" Marius looked at Grantaire with puzzled expression, before a flash of realization lit up his eyes. He took a watch out of his coat, gasped and jumped on his feet, almost kicking down his chair. "I'm sorry, If you'll excuse me I should...I have to.... I'm late, sorry." he muttered, and he rushed out of the bar.

Grantaire smiled sardonically, as the two men sat next to him. Courfeyac let out a light laugh and shook his head.

"Marius is a beautiful person, but he can act in such silly ways sometimes."

"The kid is in love, you can see it from a mile away!"

"So, how long have you been knowing him?"

"Oh, actually I've just met him," Grantaire answered. No pointing in lying about something so easy to unmask.

As soon as he said these words, he saw Enjolras' head tilting to look at Courfeyrac. The latter looked at him with the corner of his eyes, but his smile didn't fade. Grantaire braced himself knowing that, despite Courfeyrac's friendly expression, he was under questioning.

"Well, Grantaire... Can I ask you what your political ideas are?"

"Political ideas, you say?" Grantaire scratched his clean-shaven chin, faking a thoughtful face.

"For instance," Courfeyrac continued "what is your opinion about Buonaparte?"

"Napoléon, you mean? Isn't he dead?"

"What does that matter?" Enjolras snapped suddenly, folding his arms across his chest "You surely know his politics. It dates back to less than twenty years ago."

Grantaire shrugged "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

Enjolras frowned and pinched at the bridge of his nose, obviously without catching the movie reference. "What about Louis-Philippe, then?" he insisted, leaning towards Grantaire, "He is alive. He is ruling over us. He is making people's lives a nightmare. Are you aware of how many men, women and children live in the slums, barely affording a mouthful of bread a day? Do you realize that thousands of human beings are left to die on the streets and.. "

Grantaire kept quiet while Enjolras went on speaking, but after a little time he stopped listening to his words, almost hypnotized by the cadence of his voice and began to stare at him from head to toe. He lingered for a moment on his eyes, and again the unbelievable resemblance between the man and his drawings blew his mind. He had noticed that only the eyes were different, when he had first seen him across the room, but he hadn't been able to understand why. He realized it in that moment: in spite of the shape and the color being exactly the same, what he hadn't been able to depict was the light they gave off. They were cold eyes, just like he had imagined. It wasn't easy looking directly at them without fearing of being judged and without feeling a shiver. And yet, when Enjolras was speaking, Grantaire noticed it was as if they were burning. Ice-cold eyes burning as fire. They were an oxymoron.

Suddenly, Grantaire came out of trance and realized Enjolras had finished his rant about the king. Straightening his spine, he cleared his throat and commented "Enjolras. No offense, but your beautiful teeth and perfect skin aren't exactly the portrait of poverty." Enjolras's jaw dropped at Grantaire's words and the latter got ready for a fit of rage, but the tension was broken by Courfeyrac's bright laugh.

"Sit back, Enjolras. He is bantering you."

"Of course I am, sir," Grantaire grinned "Anyway, relax. I'm not telling anybody about your plans of overthrowing the monarchy."

Silence fell for a moment, and then a frustrated groan escaped Enjolras's throat.

"Pontmercy..."

Courfeyrac laughed again "Don't worry, I'm sure he won't tell anybody else. We are grateful for your silence, Grantaire."

"So, can I come here even if I think that your beloved revolution is quite useless?" he asked with a sardonic smile. Courfeyrac gave a quick look to Enjolras. The blond looked sternly at Grantaire for another couple of seconds, then he sighed and nodded.

"Of course," he said "We are in a democracy here. Everybody is welcomed." This said, he got up, nodded goodbye and left. Courfeyrac shook Grantaire's hand saying "It was a pleasure" and followed him suit.

Left alone at the table, Grantaire sighed and gave a look around him. The room was slowly getting empty, but he decided he had had enough social interaction for that day. He noticed the bottle of red wine Marius had left on the table, half empty. He was going to spend the night outside, in a 19th century Parisian winter. Surely, something to warm him up wouldn't hurt. He shrugged, grabbed the bottle and left the Musain.

 

***

 

The night was colder than he had expected. He walked in the snow for what felt like ages, trying to stay warm, but his toes and hands were freezing at the point that they hurt. The bottle of wine hadn't been of great help and to make things worse it had made him slightly dizzy. Despite this, he still had no intention of looking for a place where to sleep. Not only because of the freezing air, but also because he couldn't stop moving in excitement. He kept strolling in the city, looking in amazement at every passer-by, every lamplight and every carriage.

It must have been around midnight when he found himself on a bridge that crossed the Seine. He leaned on the parapet and looked up. He almost let out a gasp when he saw the unbelievable amount of stars visible from there. Without all the 21st century light pollution he could see the dark sky speckled with lights, crossed by a well visible milky way.

"1832," he said out loud. He still couldn't believe that he was really there and that wasn't just a strange dream he had had several times during the years. He was there, flesh and bones, in 1832. Eugène Delacroix was still alive. Charles Baudelaire was just a kid somewhere in that same city. Italy was still divided into tens of little states and Greece was going to become indipendent in a few months. He could have asked anybody in the whole city and nobody would have known Andy Warhol, the Beatles, Stephen Spielberg, Walt Disney. Not even Oscar Wilde. It was as if it was a completely different world, where nobody had ever listened to Smells like Teen Spirit, watched the Simpsons, eaten a Pringles, seen a traffic light or heard the noise of a pneumatic drill.

He laughed in excitement at that surreal situation, and his laughter got lost in the night. No car engines, no ambulances, no muffled music coming from a discotheque. Paris was plunged into silence.

Weariness fell suddenly on him like a cloak, and he found himself yawning. He sat down on the pavement, ignoring the annoying feeling of the snow soaking through his trousers. Wrapping himself as tight as he could in his coat, he rested his head against the parapet behind him. It wasn't exactly a comfortable position and his neck was exposed to the cold January wind.

For a brief second a thought flashed through his mind: what the hell was he doing there?

It lasted just a moment. He opened his eyes again and looked at the most beautiful sky a 21st century man had ever seen and smiled. That world was beautiful. No television crowded of La Pen, Putin, ISIS, nuclear threats, global warming or carcinogenic chemicals in McDonald's food.

Just bright stars, snowy pavements and eyes as burning as ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody! I got to finish another chapter, unbelievable :D As always, feel free to let me know what mistakes I've made (english is not my first language) and any opinion you have about the story...I really need to improve my writing and you would really make my day!  
> The title of the chapter was inspired by Woody Allen's movie "Midnight in Paris", in which people living in different periods in history long for a previous "Golden age", just like Grantaire in this chapter.
> 
> As always, you can find me at [musain_rules](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/musain-rules) ...come say hello! :D


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